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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25569700">Anything Cliche: If you can't beat it, just blow it up.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharim28/pseuds/sharim28'>sharim28</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Anything Cliche [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Stargate SG-1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Sam and Jack Ship Day 2020 (Stargate)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 02:20:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,183</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25569700</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharim28/pseuds/sharim28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“You think you stand a chance?” she quips, offering him a half smile.</p><p>“Well, I do have the benefit of your head injury giving me an advantage,” he points out pragmatically.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Samantha "Sam" Carter/Jack O'Neill</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Anything Cliche [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1853023</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>94</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Anything Cliche: If you can't beat it, just blow it up.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Because why do your actual work requirements when you could post fic? </p><p>Sadly, the fic I was planning for Ship Day is just not going to happen thanks to real life crazy. Maybe for ship day 2021 if we're all lucky. </p><p>But I did have this random scene laying on my hard drive from when I wrote Anything Cliche, and it didn't really fit in the story or tone I was aiming to go for back then. So I've poked at it half-heartedly tonight, tried mash it together, and figured I'd throw it out there as a sort of 'missing scene that didn't really fit'. At least lets me contribute something for Ship Day!  I don't even know if it meets a prompt, but who cares right?</p><p>Totally unbeta'd, very hastily cobbled together, and really just so I can bang my own drum and say "Hey look, I finally did a Ship Day!". </p><p>You don't have to read the "Anything Cliche" fic before you read this because it's definitely a stand alone.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Well,” the General says. “This is a cliche.” </p><p>His voice is far away and muffled, and she struggles to open her eyes. </p><p>When she finally forces her lids apart, his worried face is hovering over her. His features are blurred and indistinct—does he have three eyes?—but she’d recognise him anywhere. She’d know him anywhere. </p><p>“Come on, Carter, talk to me.”</p><p>“Normally you want me to stop talking,” she says. Well, she tries to say that, but her tongue feels thick and awkward and she’s not sure the words made much sense on the way out.</p><p>“How many fingers am I holding up?”</p><p>She squints. Three, or four? Why is everything so blurry? And is that his hand cupped around the back of her head?</p><p>“Carter?” His fingers are still in front of her face, wiggling now, and she forces her gaze back to them. </p><p>“Two?” </p><p>“Where the hell is Brightman?” He sounds annoyed, or maybe worried; it’s difficult to tell with the ringing in her ears. Or maybe it’s the base sirens she can hear blaring in the background. Why are the alarms going anyway?</p><p>She’s vaguely aware of his hand still behind her head; the feel of his fingers against her scalp is comforting. She wants to ask him why he’s holding her head, but her voice isn’t behaving and everything around her is becoming more blurry. She frowns, trying to focus on him, trying to stay awake.</p><p>His eyes are the last things she sees as everything around her fades.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Despite Sam’s protests to Doctor Brightman earlier that afternoon, she knows right now the infirmary is probably still the best place for her. While the dull headache is finally easing—it’s no longer a splitting, piercing ache—she’s still unsteady on her feet and she feels more exhausted than she should, given the amount of time she spent unconscious overnight. Even knowing all of that, Sam finds herself desperate for escape, or at the very least, her laptop; she’s never been good at lying back and doing nothing, and an hour of ‘resting’ has her at her limits.</p><p>Familiar footsteps herald the arrival of the General, and she finds herself half hoping he’s got her laptop for her. Or at least a report. Or something to do.</p><p>Unfortunately, his hands are empty aside from two glass bowls of Jello. </p><p>“Doctor Brightman said you were finally awake,” he says, dragging a small table over with his foot and dumping the bowls of Jello on it. </p><p>“I’ve been awake all day,” Sam feels obliged to correct, taking the spoon he produces from his pocket and picking up the bowl of blue Jello. She watches curiously as he pulls a small wooden box out from under his arm where he’d tucked it against himself.</p><p>“What’s that?”</p><p>It’s a small wooden chess set, beautifully carved and worn almost smooth by time and use. She stays quiet as he carefully sets up the pieces and spins the board around so the white side is facing her.</p><p>“Well?” he says, quirking an eyebrow at her.</p><p>“You think you stand a chance?” she quips, offering him a half smile.</p><p>“Well, I do have the benefit of your head injury giving me an advantage,” he points out pragmatically. </p><p>“It’s only a <em> mild </em> concussion.”</p><p>“Carter, you <em> blew up your lab." </em></p><p>The truth is, in all the years they’ve known each other, they’ve never played chess with each other before. She suspects he’s good at chess given his tactical skills, but she’s never seen him actually playing. She wonders why; the smooth curves of this set suggests it’s a long favourite pastime of his.</p><p>She was right, he <em> is </em> good at chess. They sit in silence, only the noise of their spoons gently clinking against their bowls and the soft clicking as they move their pieces carefully along the board breaking the silence between them.</p><p>As her bowl empties, her levels of frustration rise until eventually she sighs and knocks over her king in defeat, something that hasn’t happened to her in years.</p><p>She looks at him suspiciously.</p><p>“Must be the head injury,” he says, moving the pieces back to their original positions and then looking at her to see if she's up for another round.</p><p>Three rounds later, Sam’s pretty sure her losing has nothing to do with her head injury, and everything to do with his skill.</p><p>Narrowing her eyes, determined to win at least one round—she’s never, ever liked losing—she focuses her attention back on the board. </p><p>“How are you doing that?” she asks finally when he beats her yet again with seeming ease.</p><p>He shrugs. “I like chess.”</p><p>When he beats her again, she knocks over her king and sits back in the bed, arms folded almost mulishly across her chest. It’s stupid, really, to be angry that he’s better at her than this, but Sam Carter is so used to being <em> the best </em> that it’s a hard pill to swallow to accept that he is by far her superior when it comes to chess.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Why have we never played chess before?”</p><p>“You never asked me to.”</p><p>“I didn’t ask today either,” she points out, watching as he puts the pieces away.</p><p>He shrugs. “I thought you’d be bored. Enjoy a challenge.”</p><p>She narrows her eyes. That wasn’t a challenge; that was impossible. She feels angry and frustrated and annoyed that for the first time years she's failed at a challenge. And she refuses to give up.</p><p>Without quite realizing her intention she reaches out, resting her hand over his where he’s packing up the pieces. Beneath her fingers, his skin is warm and solid, and something she’d believed long forgotten sparks hopefully in her chest. But the spark is sharp and aching, and the hurt is so much more overwhelming than the excitement, so with the strength of self-preservation driving her it’s easy to stuff back down into the dark recesses of her heart where she rarely examines too closely. Besides, there's Pete to think of now. These old feelings are just remnants, she tells herself. Memories and relinquished fantasies that come out to haunt her when she vulnerable with head injuries and pain medication.</p><p>He raises his eyebrow at her when her hand lingers for longer than it should.</p><p>“One more round?”</p><p>“I almost forgot you never know when to give up,” he grumbles, but obligingly starts removing the pieces again.</p><p>“It’s not about giving up,” she says, staring at the untouched board once he’s got it set up.</p><p>“Then what’s it about?”</p><p>She turns the board, letting him have the white pieces. He holds her gaze for a second, and again that spark lurches in her chest, but forcibly she ignores it and focuses her attention on the chess board.</p><p>“It’s about finding a different way to think about it,” she says eventually, after he’s made his first move. </p><p>“That’s always been your strong point,” he concedes. “It’s how you save our collective asses by doing the impossible.”</p><p>“But I can’t even win a game of chess,” she mutters, realizing a fatal flaw a moment after he’s moved his knight. </p><p>“Probably not,” he agrees, setting up the final move.</p><p>She wants to push the board away, to sweep the pieces off in frustration, but that would look childish and sulky. Instead, she obligingly moves a pawn and allows him a clean victory.</p><p>He smiles at her. “There’s a reason I never played chess with you before, Carter.”</p><p>“Why’s that, sir?”</p><p>“You’re a sore loser,” he says, and she can’t argue because she’s knows it’s true. “And you don’t know when to call it quits.”</p><p>That irritation is bright and sharp again, and maybe it’s the drugs still washing through her system that seems to have lowered her inhibitions a little because she glares at him, uncharacteristically letting him know exactly how irritated he’s made her with his astute observations and for knowing her and her flaws too well. </p><p>After a beat, he continues as though he hasn’t noticed her glaring at him. “Then again, if this was an analogy about your skills in the field, Carter, you’d just blow up the damn board when you realised you couldn’t win.”</p><p>It’s strange how pleased and satisfied she feels at his words, as though it’s okay to lose at a game of chess but be good at blowing things up. Recklessly, knowing she’s doomed, she thrusts a pawn in the line of bishop, hoping he’ll take the flimsy bait and open himself up.</p><p>He raises an eyebrow at her and ignores the painfully obvious ploy she’s trying.</p><p>By the time she flicks her king over in defeat again, she’s feeling tired and headachey and the remaining sweetness of the Jell-O is making her thirsty. </p><p>“Here,” he says, passing her a paper cup with some water and then wordlessly starts packing up the game while she sips at the cool water. He always seems to know exactly what she needs, Sam muses as she watches his long fingered hands carefully place each piece in the case. </p><p>“One of the guys I served with was a Chess Master,” he offers unexpectedly, holding onto a pawn and appearing to study it. “Or expert. Or something.”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“We carved a board into the ground and used moss and pebbles as pieces.”</p><p>It feels like her heart stops in her chest, and she peers as him almost hesitantly from beneath her lashes. He can only be talking about a time before he knew her. About a time in a hellhole she’s heard snippets about but never directly discussed with her. She waits, silent, almost willing him to continue but hoping he won’t.</p><p>“I hated losing,” he says finally. </p><p>“Did you ever win?”</p><p>His fingers clench over the piece in his hand; she sees the way the blood drains from his knuckles and imagines the way the pawn digs into his hand. </p><p>“I’m still here,” he says eventually, and then carefully places the pawn in the box. The snap of the catch closing when he shuts the lid jolts through the air like a gunshot, shattering the heaviness that had settled around him. </p><p>It’s the feel of his skin beneath her fingers—warm, alive—that tells her she’s reached out to him without realising, resting her hand on his to stop him pulling the box away from her.</p><p>“I’m really glad you’re a winner, sir,” she says quietly.</p><p>The snort is little more than a huff of emotion.</p><p>“Yeah, well, quitters never win, and winners never quit,” he quips quietly, turning his hand over under hers and gently squeezing her fingers with his. “And you’re not a quitter.”</p><p>Despite being well aware of her flaws and shortcomings, she knows without a doubt that he believes in her completely. That she has nothing left to prove to this man who time and time again has put his faith in her, despite knowing she’s not infallible. </p><p>“Even if I blow up my lab?” she asks lightly. </p><p>And then he’s pulling his hand out from under hers, gathering up his chess set, every inch General O’Neill the professional and not the man who’d shared a small, personal part of himself with her mere minutes ago.</p><p>“You know, I really thought Hammond beat the whole “blowing your lab up” thing out of you.”</p><p>“I try not to make a habit of it, sir.”</p><p>“But did you really have to do this during my first week on the job?” he complains good naturedly. </p><p>“Wouldn’t want you to think being a General is easy, sir.”</p><p>He makes a noise of derision, tucking his chess set under his arm.</p><p>“Well,” he says easily. “Hopefully your first mission as a Colonel will be a little kinder to you than my first week as a General.”</p><p>The reminder of her new promotion still sends a thrill through her when she thinks about it, and she grins at him delightedly. “As long as Daniel keeps his hands to himself, I’m sure we’ll be fine, sir.”</p><p>“Oh,” he agrees airily. “I'm sure. It’s the whole ‘Daniel keeping his hands to himself’ part that tends to be the problem.”</p><p>“You up for a rematch when we get back?” she asks, motioning at the box under his arm.</p><p>His eyes soften fractionally, something shifting in them so that he’s smiling at her in a way that’s always made her insides twist and feels like nothing else in the world exists but them. A look, she’s often mused, he seems to reserve for her and her alone.</p><p>“You ready to lose again, Carter?”</p><p>“Never,” she says, shaking her head. “Next time, I won’t have a head injury.”</p><p>His chuckle follows him out of the room, and Sam lays back in the infirmary bed, a smile still tugging at her lips. Besides, she’s got at least another day in the infirmary before the doctor lets her go home. That’s plenty of time to research some strategies and do some serious refining of her strategies. </p><p>No way in hell will she lose again. </p>
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